


Boxed Up

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Face Slapping, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26102638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: When you’re naughty, you go in the box.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Boxed Up

The thing is, if you ask August Walker for something, don’t be surprised if he goes and does it. Like now, when after looking at him for a long moment, a moment in which you can practically hear him thinking up ways to give you hell for wasting his time, you ask him if he could hit you, please. 

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t break stride. Just walks in your direction and on his way past swings his arm back, raises a hand to deliver a slap that rocks your head to the side and sends you sprawling to the floor. And he continues on his way, as you lie there with your head spinning, feeling the burn of the handprint covering the entire side of your face and the answering pulse at your core. 

A few minutes later you receive a text. _Get in the box_. 

Oh. It’s gonna be _that_ kind of day. 

The box is a thing of beauty, all polished ironwood padded with leather. He’d made it himself, of course, over the course of a week while you hung in your ropes and wriggled appreciatively. You start to get in but hesitate. Usually he has you vibed while you’re inside but he hasn’t said anything. Should you? 

_Better safe than sorry_ , you figure, and slip the vibe into yourself, opening the paired control app before climbing into the box. And yeah, kneeling there in the box with your head and hands up through the holes, it’s weirdly more humiliating, more exposed, than even the cage. After a moment you feel that low vibration in your core. Good choice. 

He comes back fast enough that he was probably just waiting in his car, the bastard. He just loves to watch you suffer, thrills at the sweat on your brow and the weak little moans you can’t help but let slip, the soft noises as you shake apart yet again, even though the box is for quiet and reflection and _if you can’t keep quiet you’ll just have to stay in there longer_. 

_Longer_ ends up being all day, it seems like. He stretches his legs out on the floor, works the kinks out of that old bullet wound in his calf while he leans his head against the box and listens to you sweat and shake and try to be quiet. And eventually you are, but only because your voice has gone and you’re hovering on the cusp of unconsciousness. 

He opens the box, lifts you up like it’s nothing at all. And that’s what does it, the sudden painful uncurling of your limbs combined with the withdrawal of the vibe, however gentle. It drops you right out of your head, limp in his arms, quiet at last.


End file.
